No Room For Imagining
by Judy-Licious
Summary: My body cannot lie. — PaulDawn


**Warning:** Mentions of bulimia and slight mental instability. Proceed at your own risk.  
**Notes:** I don't even know. Please review?

* * *

He looked younger than she remembered.

Not that she had kept a clear image of him in her mind all those years, reality unconsciously merging with what ifs and should have beens. His hair was longer, pulled into a sloppy ponytail, strands standing out at hazard angles, but his eyes were still stern and somewhat cloudy, brows furrowed above them. There was something illicit about the sight, as if she was intruding some intimate moment that was not for just anyone to see.

"Your brother isn't here, I assume?" Dawn asked and tried a smile. It hurt at the edges. She hoped he wouldn't notice.

"No," he replied, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. The way his muscles flexed, exposing the dull blue of his veins, had a hypnotic effect on her nerves.

Tilting her head, she took a few steps forward. "Can I come in?"

He glared at her, his forehead knitting into an all too familiar pattern. Dawn stretched out her hand and pressed her fingers against his wrist. She could feel the steady pace of his pulse, and timed her breath with it, before she moved downward to catch his hot palm with her cold one.

It was funny. One would expect it to be the other way around.

* * *

"Idiot."

Dawn deliberately turned away from him and dug her toes into his mattress, her torso bare, while her lower half was wrapped in a crumpled heap of blankets and pillows.

"Asshat," she greeted him, her hair softly falling down her back. It was distracting to an extent that was embarrassing and called for punishment. Paul was going to drill down on it later.

"Dud bitch," he said, for good measure. "Get out of my bed."

"Oh, good one." She hummed a quiet laugh as she rolled over to the other side of the bed, where he stood half-dressed, and touched his abdomen with her index finger. "But wouldn't you rather join me instead?"

Paul felt a smirk break over his face despite himself. "What makes you think I'd want to?"

Dawn blinked up at him, finger trailing circles across his stomach. He stopped it, and bent down to her.

"Oh, I don't know," she whispered. "You tell me."

He squeezed her hand with a kind of desperation that made his teeth grit and began to move his mouth down her jawline.

"Well?" she breathed when he reached the flushed red of her lips.

Paul stared into the dark pits of her eyes and could not find the strength in himself to lie.

"I forgot. Now shut up."

* * *

"How late is it?"

"Too late."

"Classic."

A quiet creak. The rustle of fabric.

"I'm going downstairs. You want anything?"

Dawn's mouth curved up into a weak smile, which she knew he couldn't see in the dim light of the early night. "You'll never be a good host, but I'm honored that you're trying so hard for me." She had the feeling he was watching her for another few moments in the dark, then she could hear his footfalls dissolving into silence.

* * *

When Dawn awoke, she was alone in his bed.

The sun hung high above the trees in front of the windows, concocting bizarre arrangements of light on their discarded clothes.

Dawn didn't dare open her eyes. Slowly she moved her right hand on top of her stomach and pushed down on the soft tissue.

No, not tissue.

No, not exactly.

Nausea welled up in her at the thought. She knew what was coming; she was running on autopilot by now.

* * *

One or two fingers were all it took.

Then she was comfortably hollow again.

Somewhere downstairs he was smoking or watching the news.

* * *

Paul found her in bed, hidden in the sheets, staring at the ceiling.

"My mother used to tell me that I was a blank piece of paper," she said. Her voice sounded vacant, lost. "You know, I'd like to stay that way forever, I think."

Paul swallowed. "Empty?" he asked.

She smiled. It looked obscenely sincere.

"Yes."

* * *

"When is Reggie coming back?"

Paul shrugged and continued to wash the dishes. The kitchen lamp flickered dangerously.

Dawn pulled her knees up to her chin. "What's he doing?"

Something in the sink chinked ominously.

"Returning some pokémon to their owners. Special service or something."

Dawn slid from her chair across the room and slung her arms around his waist.

"Interested in a _special_ service of mine?"

There was the sound of breaking glass and someone choking loudly on their own spit.

* * *

"You need to eat sometime."

Paul watched her take several measured steps away from him, outside the room into the corridor. Her mouth twisted into something new and sharp.

"What are you talking about?"

Paul grimaced. "I'm not in the mood for playing games."

Something akin to pain darted over her face. She looked down where the morning light draped her feet in a weak orange glow.

"But that's all this is about," she whispered. "Don't you understand?"

He ventured to follow her and take her in until there was nowhere left for her to run.

"No," he said to the nape of her neck. "No, it's not."

But that was too much.

Untangling herself, she pushed him away and looked at him, _really looked at him_, for the first time.

Her breath caught. "Why are you like this? You used to be so—so—"

_So much like me._

"You're right," he admitted. "That was before." _This is now._

The realization beat down on her in torrents, ripping through her and tearing her open—

But then, a hand tugging at her arm.

"Don't touch me," she snapped. "I thought you were like me; broken, nothing. But you're not, so don't touch me."

"Dawn," he said, relishing the letters in a way that scared him. "You were never nothing."

Dawn stirred, gripping his shoulders, and pressed her forehead against his chest.

"You're lying," she accused, breathing in and breathing out so fast it didn't even hurt anymore.

"My body cannot lie."


End file.
